


five reasons why pope heyward is screwed

by kiwiibiird



Series: the sweatshirt series [2]
Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Broken nose, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Dancing in the Rain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kie and John B Ship Mayward, Kissing in the Rain, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pope Heyward Finally Figures Out His Feelings, Sharing a Bed, Underage Drinking, it's so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiibiird/pseuds/kiwiibiird
Summary: “Technically speaking,” JJ starts, “This is totally not my fault.”
Relationships: JJ/Pope (Outer Banks), Kiara & Pope (Outer Banks), Pope & John B. Routledge
Series: the sweatshirt series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929283
Comments: 18
Kudos: 169





	1. Orange Soda

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! This one will be longer than the last because pope actually knows how to handle feelings (sort of)  
> 

Pope doesn’t like orange soda.

It always tastes fake, obnoxious, and weirdly sharp (does that even make _sense?_ ) in his mouth. It’s definitely something about the bubbles, but it’s also not the bubbles? It’s hard to describe.

And don’t even get him _started_ on the ingredients. He can practically _feel_ the unholy amount of sugar slide across his tongue whenever he drinks it. He doesn’t drink it often, but whenever he does, vivid imagery of bright orange gunking up his teeth and gums comes to mind. While it’s not the worst thing in the world, it’s also really not super pleasant, and always leaves him itching to ask his dad about his next dentist appointment.

The point is he doesn’t like orange soda. Never has, never will.

And Pope definitely doesn’t like orange soda when it’s soaking through the front of his shirt.

The brand new, freshly starched and ironed, crisp white button up shirt that he’s supposed to wear to his scholarship interview.

Yeah, _that shirt_. He definitely doesn’t like fucking orange soda all over _that shirt_.

Fuck, he’s so _screwed_.

“Technically speaking,” JJ starts, “This is totally not my fault.”

Pope breathes in sharply. He has to try so hard to not let his vision go red.

“Not your fault?” Jaw working, Pope turns to look at JJ, who is currently holding the half empty bottle of orange soda, still fizzing that ugly, highlighter orange all over the hand tightly gripping the bottle.

Pope points accusingly at JJ, furious, “How the fuck is it _not your fault_? You’re literally holding the bottle!”

“John B shook it before he gave it to me?” JJ tries, which leads to John B immediately letting out a harsh squawk of “ _that’s not true_!” somewhere to his left, and Pope loses it.

JJ doesn’t see it coming, but Kiara does.

“JJ, _run_!” She hollers at him, and Pope can see the reality of the situation hit JJ square in the face, eyes going wide at the pure lividness of Pope’s expression, before he’s bolting out of the chateau. The door bangs so hard it might have splintered on his way out.

Abandoning the ruined white shirt with its hanger on the couch, Pope books it after JJ into the sunny afternoon, John B and Kie shouting after them in protest.

JJ and Pope have always been fast.

It’s been that way since they were kids. Whether it be chasing after one another on the beach in a high stakes game of tag, or dodging and weaving through the figure eight, their feet pounding on the pavement as they made a break for the cut with a bunch of pissed off kooks dogging at their heels.

Both of them have always been running from some thing or another. JJ’s had a lot of practice running from the law, specifically _security_. You need to be when you’re a pogue, comes with the lifestyle.

Don’t get him wrong; Pope’s had a lot of practice with running from the cops too.

But Pope’s also had lots of practice running from things like chores. Things like parent teacher conferences, like social anxiety, like the whispers of classmates, like his mother’s prying questions, like self doubt, like shame, like fear, like responsibility.

Like the crushing and mighty weight of his father’s expectations.

That something he’ll never stop running from. Couldn’t stop, not even if he tried.

So like, _yeah_. JJ’s fast when it comes to running from trouble. Pope’s fast when it comes to running from _everything_.

It doesn’t take long to catch up. JJ had made a break for the beach, and he’s not all that great at running on sand. No one is, really. It makes for some pretty fun beach frisbee tournaments.

The point is Pope catches up to him. And in his blind fury he just straight up fucking _Superman tackles_ JJ down.

JJ lets out a surprised shout as they hit the ground, followed by a bout of heavy, breathless laughter as he and Pope wrestle with each other in the sand.

JJ’s laugh reminds Pope of when they were kids, when things like white button ups and scholarship interviews didn’t matter. The sound settles the boiling rage inside of him to a low heat, and his vision clears just so.

Eventually Pope gets JJ pinned, and no amount of twisting or bodily heaving can get him out of it, so JJ caves, still laughing, “Okay uncle, _uncle_! Jesus Christ, _Balboa_ , get offa me!”

“Not until you admit that it’s your fault my shirt is ruined,” Pope says, and JJ gets that look in his eye that means he’s about to act like a total _brat_.

“It’s not my fault, _actually_. What is my fault is how stupid you’re gonna feel when I–!” JJ starts to try to buck Pope off, attempting to get a hand under Pope’s thighs to hoist him to the side.

Pope is having none of it.

With one fluid motion, he lifts himself up and gets a hold of JJ’s wrists. JJ tries to get out of the way but he’s too slow, and Pope lands back down on top of his hips, pinning his wrists above his head and keeping him still. The position brings their faces close, and Pope can feel it when JJ lets out a sharp, involuntary breath of air against his cheek.

Nearly nose to nose, Pope tries not to feel smug. He raises an eyebrow, “Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you not apologizing.”

Up this close, Pope can see the freckles dusted across JJ’s nose and cheek bones. He never realized JJ had freckles before.

He can also see the way JJ’s ears turn cherry red, the way his eyes widen. The light blush makes his freckles stand out more, and Pope has a weird urge to gently trace over them with his finger to feel their temperature.

JJ’s expression is a mix of surprise and something else that Pope has never seen before.

“I’m sorry,” JJ says after a few beats, and the way Pope squints at him in suspicion pulls a petulant “ _I am_!” out of him before he settles back into something more earnest, “Really. I didn’t mean to get it on your shirt. I know you hate orange soda.”

That last bit makes something warm settle in Pope’s chest, and the vice grip of anger on his heart begins to loosen with the feeling.

“So you admit it’s your fault?” He asks, feeling triumphant and kinda wanting to rub it in, just a little.

The pouty look returns, and JJ rolls his eyes so hard Pope thinks he’s gonna pull a muscle doing it, “Yes, okay? It’s all my fault. Now _get off_ , your ass is crushing me.”

Pope laughs at that, any lingering anger dissolving with the sound. He rolls to the side and off of JJ’s hips to let him up, teasing as he goes, “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

JJ lets out a loud bark of a sound that could pass as a laugh if it wasn’t so strangled. He doesn’t answer, though, which makes Pope look up.

When he looks, JJ’s whole face is a shade darker than it was before, and he is adamantly not looking in Pope’s direction.

For only a second, there’s a sort of pinched expression on JJ’s face. Pope can see it in the little crease between his brows. He almost looks like he got caught doing something _wrong_. It’s subtle, and if Pope didn’t know JJ like he does, he would’ve missed it entirely.

Concern dampening his smile, Pope’s just about to open his mouth to ask when the pounding of feet in the sand approaching cuts him off.

John B comes running up, and that look on JJ’s face is gone in an instant, eyes lighting up as he hollers “ _You’re late to the party, princess_!” at their friend, laughing like the last minute of his life didn’t just happen.

Pope laughs too, setting aside his concern over his friend to pick apart and analyze later. It leaves a lingering feeling that Pope doesn’t know how to describe, and he’s really not a fan of _that_.

John B flips the two of them off with a polite grin as he comes up, breathing like he just sprinted a mile, “Just wanted to make sure you two weren’t killing each other.”

“Mission accomplished, Captain!” JJ mocks with a dramatic salute, and John B playfully kicks some sand at him.

“Where’s Kie?” Pope asks, ever the worrier.

“She went to work some magic on your shirt. Said her mom would know what to do. Her exact words were ‘ _everyone within a ten mile radius will get a headache if Pope starts to worry about it, so tell him to stop’_.”

John B shrugs at Pope’s glare, holding up his hands with a smile that makes it hard to stay mad, “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, well, the messenger isn’t as nearly as sandy as the rest of us,” JJ says, a glint in his eye that Pope knows all too well.

John B looks confused for a moment, and then his eyes widen as the realization sets in “Don’t you dare,” he says, already taking a few slow steps back as both boys rise to their feet. He looks at Pope, hands out like a peace offering, “Pope, c’mon man. You’re on my side, right?”

JJ and Pope share a _look_ , then turn back to John B.

Pope shrugs, “Sorry, JB.”

“ _Shit_.”

There’s a single breath where none of them move, and then John B _bolts_ , JJ hot on his heels. Pope smiles and takes off after them, feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

Needless to say, the odds do not work out in John B’s favor.

After showering off an afternoon covered in laughter and a shit ton of sand, the pogues end the evening with Budweisers around the campfire in front of the chateau.

Pope finds his thoughts wandering back to the afternoon heat. He’s still stuck on the image of the light dusting of freckles across JJ’s skin. There were just _so many_ , and Pope can’t even believe he hadn’t noticed them before.

Next to him, JJ shivers. When he looks, JJ’s shoulders are all bunched up against the evening chill. The tips of his ears are turning red from the cold.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, standing up and slipping into the chateau. JJ’s a little too busy chugging a Budweiser to answer.

He snags his sweatshirt, which had been drying on the radiator after it was washed in a weak attempt to remove all of the sand, and heads back outside.

Dropping the sweatshirt into JJ’s lap, he settles back down next to his friend. At first, JJ tries to protest, but all Pope has to say is “I don’t want you to get cold”, give him just the right _please, for me?_ look, and bump their shoulders together for JJ to settle into it.

After a few minutes, JJ says, quiet, as if he’s trying not to disturb the stars above their heads, “Thanks.”

Pope casts a glance towards his friend. He looks warmer in Pope’s sweatshirt, and in the firelight, JJ _glows_.

Pope raises his beer to him with a bow of his head, and JJ smiles so bright it puts the sun to shame, shoving at his shoulder.

The rest of the night is quiet, conversation drifting in and out as it is wont to do. He doesn’t mind. He loves nights like these.

Pope’s gaze drifts up to the stars. He wonders, idly, if there are any constellations hidden on JJ’s skin.

Glancing over at his friend, with his quiet smile in the firelight, hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt, he kinda wants to _find them_.

Maybe someday JJ will let him. But for now, the stars will do just fine.


	2. Surfboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say heroic boyfriend mode?  
> 

Let it never be said that Pope Heyward doesn’t like surfing.

He loves it, actually. It’s the best way for him to unwind– spending the afternoon at the beach with his friends. The sun in his eyes and the saltwater on his skin feels nice, and it helps to just turn his brain off every once in a while. It’s kind of his _favorite_ thing.

He just– overthinks it, sometimes.

Pope overthinks a lot of things. It’s basically his _status quo_ , which sucks because he doesn’t want to overthink everything but he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. Anxiety’s a bitch like that.

So while the pogues are all out on dawn patrol, the sun burning into the ocean waves with this deep orange and pink and purple as it just barely begins to rise, it’s pretty on brand for Pope to start analyzing the weather and wave patterns.

It’s a fairly clear morning, but the winds are high, and Pope could tell from the walk down that the waves are white topped and heavy– which means there’s probably gonna be a few that double up and cause problems– which _means_ if JJ tries to pull that helicopter trick like he’s been talking about all morning, he’s going to have to be fucking _careful–_

“Hey, Einstein!” Kie’s voice from down the beach snaps him out of it, “I can see smoke coming out of your ears! Stop thinking and come surf with us!”

“C’mon Pope! You’re gonna miss the show!” JJ calls back, already up to his waist in the water, twisting to look at them over his shoulder so he doesn’t get knocked over by an incoming wave.

From this distance, the sunrise tints JJ’s blonde hair a pinkish orange. It makes his skin shine like copper lined with gold. It reminds Pope a little bit of what he thinks a modern day Icarus could look like– minus the wings of course. Which is kinda fitting for JJ. Always burning bright and fast and _beautiful_ , in a ridiculously messy, stupid, idyllic sort of way.

Anyway.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Pope hollers, kicking off his sandals and dropping his shirt on the pile of his friends’ clothes before booking it down to the water, surfboard tucked snugly under his arm. The sand is cool, having the night’s respite from the pounding heat of the sun. It feels nice under his feet. The water’s still warm, though.

“These waves aren’t gonna play nice,” he warns as he jogs to catch up to the rest of the group, “The winds are too high. We’re screwed if we don’t get farther out from the impact zone.”

“Oh, _c’mon_ , Pope. What’s the fun in doing it if there’s not a little _danger_?” John B grins at him with a wink, and the rest of them laugh as they start to paddle out. Pope rolls his eyes, but laughs too, because John B’s right. There’s not really a point to surfing if there aren’t any big, _scary_ waves.

So, following after his friends into the water, Pope feels brave enough to tell his anxiety to fuck off and shuts his brain off for a while.

The morning turns into a great day. It’s filled with smiles, teasing, and that perfect thrill Pope gets in his stomach whenever he manages to get his feet under him on his board. They try out some basic tricks, too. Most of them end in bailing or wipeouts, but it’s still fun regardless. JJ even manages to land a few– nothing like that helicopter spin bullshit he was talking about on the walk over, but Pope is impressed regardless.

Pope’s kinda always impressed with JJ.

He lives his life recklessly, _boldly_ , and he never apologies for it. It gets him in trouble sometimes, sure, but at least he sticks to what he believes no matter how bad it could turn out for him.

And usually, no matter how much Pope wishes it didn’t, it does go bad.

Pope can’t even count how many times JJ’s shown up with a busted lip or a black eye, just for fighting back against an unfair world that could care less about another kid from the wrong side of the tracks, going nowhere just a little too fast.

Pope thinks he kinda hates the world for that.

But JJ’s always in the moment, too. There’s none of that ‘ _worrying about the future’_ stuff when Pope’s with him. It’s like no matter how much bad he goes through, JJ always manages somehow to find the good, right then and there. JJ always looks on the bright side like it never left, like the dark days are already behind them. Pope thinks even if they were smack dab in the middle of the fires of _hell_ , JJ would just smile with a shrug and say, “At least we’re not _cold_.”

And that’s what impresses Pope most. Despite all the scrapes and bruises and the awful, _awful_ things life throws at him, JJ still smiles.

And Pope thinks he kinda loves him for that.

So yeah, he’s impressed. Or maybe it’s _appalled_. Impressed and appalled are very close together on the JJ spectrum. It’s hard to discern the difference. JJ must do it on purpose, just to confuse everyone on whether they should be taken aback by his intelligence or worried for his sanity. It’s not a very big spectrum.

Which is kind of funny, because until like, _right now_ , Pope didn’t even know he _had_ a spectrum dedicated entirely to JJ.

Well, actually– no. He definitely _knew_.

He just– he didn’t think about it.

And that’s not very _on brand_ for Pope at all.

The ocean gets meaner around midday. The wind kicks in, and the waves start doubling up, which makes it harder to bail out on the rough ones. It’s pushing them all closer and closer towards the impact zone in the shallow water, the point where the waves smash down over the sand bar. On bad days like this, you can get dragged down and _crushed_ on the bar if you’re not careful.

And listen, Pope is all here for surfing in hurricanes and high winds or whatever, but he also doesn’t want to get caught in a bad wave and, y’know, _drown_.

He says as much, and most of the others agree to head back to shore. Key word there is _most_ , because, _of course–_

“JJ, let’s _go!_ ”

“Just give me a minute!”

John B and Kie are already back on shore, only Pope and JJ still out in the churning waves because JJ wants to do that _stupid_ trick, and Pope is worried about the way the wind is beginning to whip and doesn’t want JJ to literally _die_ trying something dumb.

“JJ, come _on_!” Pope tries, but all JJ does is twist to look at him with one of those smiles that means JJ’s about to do something really _cool_ or really, _really_ _stupid_ , and Pope doesn’t like either of those options.

The last thing he hears is JJ holler something like “ _relax, Pope!_ ” before he’s duck diving underneath a wave, and Pope can’t hear anything else above the wind.

The waves are too rough to stand in the shallow water without getting bowled over, so Pope is forced back up to the beach where John B and Kie are rounding up all their shit that started to blow away in the wind. Pope keeps one eye on his friend’s back while he helps grab all their stuff.

He grabs the sweatshirt that he gave to JJ, too. Just to keep it safe.

Eventually, they’re all standing on the shore watching as their friend bobs and ducks, waiting for the perfect wave– or whatever the fuck JJ _thinks_ is the perfect wave. This is _not_ a good idea, and Pope is resolutely standing by that.

“This is a bad idea,” Kie reads his thoughts, “He’s going to get _hurt_.”

“If he drowns I’m not giving him mouth to mouth.” John B says indignantly, but Pope can hear the worry underneath it.

Pope’s mind is bouncing all over the place, taking in account the wind and the consistency of the waves breaking and the probability of them doubling up. None of the outcomes he can think of are good ones.

There’s one wave in particular that Pope can see building on the horizon. It’s _huge_. Definitely not surfable, and definitely _not_ the fucking _perfect wave_.

Of course, that’s the one that JJ goes for.

“Shit.”

“Shit?” Kie jerks to look at him, gaze darting anxiously between Pope and JJ, “Why shit?”

“JJ, bail!” John B hollers out towards the water, voice straining over the wind, “You gotta bail out, man! JJ, _bail_!”

Pope and Kie both join in. They’re all screaming their lungs out to get his attention, but JJ’s not listening, and Pope feels that familiar tightening in his chest. He feels it rise up into his throat the longer he watches JJ catch the current just right and take off, feels it threatens to _strangle_ him with the intensity.

JJ starts to ride the monster of a wave towering over his head. He gets his feet under him on the board, and just for a moment, he really is a modern day Icarus. Burning so bright and so fast and so _beautiful_ , Pope doesn’t even know if he’s _real_.

And he really _does_ almost land the trick.

Kinda.

He almost makes it all the way through the twist before the gigantic wall of water cracks down on him _hard_. It knocks him down onto his back as the surfboard pops out into the waves, the string tied round JJ’s ankle pulling taut as another monster of a wave just behind the first smashes against the sandbar, and Pope doesn’t see JJ come up for air.

JJ goes under, and Pope knows what he has to do.

Fuck, he’s so _screwed_.

“Hold this,” he practically chucks the sweatshirt at Kie before he’s taking off for the water. Pope keeps his eyes glued to the surfboard that’s being bashed and battered about in the waves, scanning frantically for a tint of blonde hair and bright eyes buried under the surf.

For a terrifying, stomach churning moment, Pope thinks that maybe JJ’s board broke loose. Maybe JJ got caught in the current. Fuck, maybe he’s already _gone–_

But the thought is dashed almost before it can be formed. The tide draws back to reveal JJ on his back against the sand bar, gasping for air as he scrambles unsuccessfully to get to his feet in the riptide. There’s already another colossal wave barreling down on him, and for once in his life, Pope doesn’t think. He just _goes_.

Tearing across the wet sand and into the surf, Pope makes it to JJ in what must be record time. He can hear JJ hacking up his lungs for the brief moment he can get some air as the tide rushes out, blonde hair plastered to his forehead and in his eyes.

He must not be able to see with his hair in his face, because when Pope drops down to straddle JJ’s back and wraps his arms tight around his torso, JJ jerks in his grip like he’s been _stung_.

“ _Pope_?!” JJ gasps out, voice hoarse with saltwater and bewilderment. The wave is on top of them, and there’s _no time_ , “What are you–,”

“Hold your breath.” Pope cuts him off swiftly before a wall of stinging seawater slams into them. Pope digs his heels deep into the sand as JJ slams back into his chest.

The moment they’re under he feels JJ’s hands latch onto his forearm in a near death grip. Pope lets his forehead fall against the nape of JJ’s neck, just to let him know _he’s_ _there_ , that he’s not going anywhere, and holds him tight.

When the tide begins to recede and their heads are topside, Pope uses the anchor point of his feet half buried in the sand to push himself up to standing. He ignores the harsh _pop_ in his right knee as he half hoists, half drags a spluttering JJ to shore, the surfboard trailing along sadly by the cord round his friend’s ankle.

When they’re finally out of the surf, Pope doesn’t even bother. He just falls down onto his back in the wet sand, JJ landing on top of him with a rush of air forced from their lungs.

For a moment, the two of them just lay there, Pope’s arms wound tightly around JJ’s middle as they catch their breath. Pope can barely hear anything over the wild pounding of his own heart.

He feels JJ’s shoulders start to shake against him, and Pope is quick to sit up and adjust JJ’s head in his lap with an anxious, “ _Shit_ , are you okay?”

Peering over his friend's face, still plastered with his hair, Pope sees a wide, uninhibited smile stretching across his lips, and he realizes JJ is laughing.

It’s high pitched and a little hysterical, but he’s _laughing_. Pope glares down at him.

“It’s not funny,” he says hotly, cheeks burning, and JJ only laughs harder. The sound is contagious, and even as the corner of his mouth starts to tug up traitorously, Pope insists, “It’s _not_. You could’ve died, JJ. This is _serious_!”

“I know, I know,” JJ manages to gasp out between his laughter. He wipes the hair out of his face, sending it sticking up every which way before smiling up at Pope. It reveals those bright blue eyes that are a little red from JJ opening his eyes under the water, like a _dumbass_ , framed near perfectly by his dark, wet eyelashes.

The contrast of the red makes the blue of them _pop–_ a kaleidoscope of patterns shining through like water in the sun. It’s a little _blinding_.

Pope doesn’t think he could look away if he tried.

“Sorry,” JJ says, trying to sound and look super serious and failing miserably.

The two of them just stare at each other for a moment before JJ can’t hold back a snort, and Pope swats at his shoulder with a huffed out “ _you’re such a dick,_ ” but he’s laughing too, head dropping down as the adrenaline from this whole fiasco leaves him.

“Got you to laugh, though.” JJ says, smiling up at him in a way that makes something inside Pope’s chest do something funny.

JJ’s never smiled at him like that before.

Their laughter is dying down as Kie and John B are coming up the beach towards them, arms full of their clothes. Pope gives them a thumbs up while JJ throws them a Shaka from his position sprawled across Pope’s lap.

“Seriously, though. That was stupid,” Pope says, looking down pointedly at his friend, “Don’t do it again.”

JJ rolls his eyes, “It wasn’t _that_ stupid. I almost had it!”

“Hate to break it to you, dude, but you really didn’t.”

“I did too! I just need more practice.”

“JJ.”

“Admit it. You thought it was hot.”

“ _JJ_.”

“Alright! Alright, fine,” JJ lifts his right hand in a dramatic oath, “I solemnly swear to not hang five, hang ten, or do any other sickass tricks that I totally _could_ do. There. Happy?”

“Nope,” Pope says, popping the _p_ for emphasis, “But thanks anyway.”

“Oh, _come on_!” JJ whines, and Pope tips his head back to the sun to hide his smile.

When he looks back at his friend, JJ’s smiling up at him. The next words out of his mouth have a spark to them, and it sets something inside of Pope _alight_.

“You know you love me.”

It hits Pope so hard his whole world shifts with it, because, holy shit– he kind of _does_.

Is that what this is? Is that why he gave JJ his sweatshirt that night? Is that why he can’t breathe when JJ looks at him just right these days? Is that why he’s so amazed at how impossibly _blue_ his eyes are, and why he’s so incredibly frustrated that he can never think of the right color blue to call them?

Fuck, is he in _love_?

“ _Yeah_ ,” he decides, a little breathless with disbelief. And maybe he decided that a little too quickly, but every part of him is humming in a way that tells him he’s just in time.

Pope smiles down at JJ, then looks out at the waves, “You know I do.”


	3. Fistfight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like how this one turned out, but what can you do lol

Pope Heyward is not in love.

Well, okay-- _no_. That’s not true. He is in love.

He’s just not _allowed_ to be.

And look, Pope came up with the “ _no pogue on pogue macking_ ” rule when he was like eleven and a control freak, okay? 

He was young, and literally everything about the concept of love was totally and completely new to him. And the very idea that his only real friend group could split at the seams just because one of them tried to kiss _Kie_ was absolutely terrifying.

Now that he’s older, Pope is beginning to realize what a stupid rule that is.

Like today, JJ is helping Pope with grocery runs for his dad. They’re both sweaty and tired in the afternoon sun, and JJ’s taken his old tank top off and is using it as a dew rag instead of a tank top. 

He’d dunked it into the water and left it draped around his neck to stay cool, and now there’s rivulets of water sliding down his chest and back. He keeps sweeping sweaty hair out of his eyes, looking like some sort of teenage _Adonis_ , or something. 

And Pope is trying not to look like he’s staring -- by which he means he definitely is just fucking staring -- but thankfully JJ’s not all that sharp in the observational skills department.

So while Pope might be blatantly staring at JJ’s back, tracing the way the water slides down his spine with his eyes, all JJ does is lift up a bunch of bananas from the bag he’s been rummaging through and ask, “You think Miss Amy’ll give me tip if I get down on one knee to give her these?”

Pope flushes just a little at the idea of JJ down on one knee for _anything_ , but manages to roll his eyes and jab lightly, “Yeah, a tip to put your shirt back on.”

Shining in the sun, JJ throws his head back and laughs, and Pope thinks no pogue on pogue macking the stupidest rule. It’s the _worst_ rule.

But it’s what he’s stuck with. And he’s just gonna have to be okay with that. He doesn’t _want_ to be okay with it, but he will be.

Eventually.

He reasons, as he makes his way down through the golf course entrance with an armful of too many groceries, that he’ll get over it eventually. That these kinds of crushes happen all the time. That it’s nice to have it for a while, to moan and groan about it with your friends (he hasn’t actually done any moaning or groaning to any of his friends about it, because, _y’know_ ) but then forget about it and never act on them ever.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway. 

He’s a little too wrapped up in thinking about it, slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the labyrinth that are his own thoughts. It’s why he doesn’t hear them coming until it’s too late.

“How much for one of those beers?” Rafe’s voice is in Pope’s ear before he actually sees him. His head jerks up, and suddenly he’s face to face with both Rafe _and_ Topper -- who are both wielding fucking _metal golf clubs_ , by the way -- with an arm full of groceries, completely _alone_. 

Something cold and heavy settles in his throat, and Pope does his best to swallow it. 

He keeps walking, “They’re not for sale.” 

Rafe uses the back of his golf club to push Pope to a stop by the chest, and Pope ignores the way he can feel that cold, heavy thing swell into something like dread. 

Rafe’s smile reminds Pope of a shark. A manic, borderline psychotic, coked up shark-- but a shark nonetheless, “Then why don’t you just give us a few for _free_ , huh?” 

Despite it being two against one, Pope is still helping his dad with a job right now. A job that his dad needs to pay the bills and keep their _house_ , so. 

He shrugs and tries to sidestep them, “Or you can order one, like everybody else.” 

It doesn’t work. 

“But you’ve got so many,” Rafe pushes him back, and the gesture is just a little too aggressive, “How about just one?”

“C’mon, man,” Topper chimes in, grin casual, like Pope didn’t just see his grip tighten on his club, “Just one beer.” 

Topper’s golf club glints in the sun, and Pope takes a deep breath and seals his fate. 

“I said no.”

The whole fight happens in about a thirty second blur. Pope remembers the groceries getting sent flying into the bushes, throwing a fist, then a flash of silver and a bloom of agony. Remembers spitting blood into the sand, remembers a shadow above his head and being fucking _terrified_ of what came next. 

He remembers the way Rafe had laughed above him, the way he leaned down and spit “we don’t want you here” in Pope’s face. Remembers the way he’d stayed there and watched Pope writhe in pain like a fucking _psycho_ , the taste of burning copper coating Pope’s tongue and teeth. 

Topper starts getting nervous the longer Rafe stares. Starts saying stuff like, “ _Rafe, come on,_ ” and “ _we gotta go_ ” as he keeps his eyes darting around the golf course, like he’s expecting Sheriff Peterkin to just materialize on the green, handcuffs at the ready. 

Rafe just leans down closer to watch Pope choke on his own blood, close enough that Pope can feel Rafe’s breath on his skin. 

“Not so tough now, huh?” He mutters, just quiet enough for Pope to hear over the blood rushing in his ears. The look in Rafe’s eyes makes Pope feel like he’s gonna be _sick_.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Rafe grins wide, “You’re not so tough at all.” 

And, it’s funny. The more Rafe talks, the more Pope feels it. Something inside of him starts to coil, slow and steady. 

“That’s enough, dude,” Topper says, “Rafe, come _on_.” 

“What’s wrong, little pogue?” Rafe taunts and that thing inside Pope gets tighter, and tighter, and _tighter_ , “Too much of a bitch to fight back?” 

“Rafe.” Topper starts to sound urgent. 

“What about your boyfriend? The one with the gun.” 

And Pope knows what it is now. Knows what to call that dark, ugly, twisting thing coiled up inside him that’s starting to break loose. 

“Would he fight back?” Rafe’s grin goes so wide Pope thinks his face is gonna split in two. 

“ _Rafe_.” Topper shouts. 

It’s rage. It’s pure, unbridled fucking _rage_.

“Or is he a bitch, too?” 

Within a split second, Pope brings his elbow upwards and cracks it hard against Rafe’s face. He hears a wet crunch, followed by a _pop_ as Rafe’s nose breaks under the force of it. Rafe yelps as he falls back into the sand on his back, and it gives Pope enough time to scramble to his feet. 

“Fuck!” Rafe shouts, clutching at his nose, red rivulets of blood already slipping through his fingers, “ _Fuck_! You broke my fucking _nose_!” 

Pope can’t find it in himself to care. Because standing above Rafe while he’s laid out in the sand? 

It’s the most satisfying thing in the world. 

He doesn’t get to enjoy it for too long before he’s getting slugged in the face by Topper.

Pope stumbles, but thankfully doesn’t fall down again. Pain pulses bright and hot across his nose and under his eye, and white spots dance across his vision. His eye was already starting to swell, and that second punch did not help. Like, _at_ _all_. 

Oddly enough though, there is no third punch coming like Pope expects there to be. When he looks, Topper has moved to crouch down next to Rafe and is helping him tilt his head down to deal with the bleeding. 

Their eyes meet over Rafe’s head, and Topper jerks his head back towards the entrance to the golf course in a clear gesture that means _get the fuck out of here_. 

Pope doesn’t have to be told twice. 

“You’re dead, pogue!” Is the last thing Pope hears as he books it back towards the docks, groceries left behind in the bloody sand. 

When Pope stumbles his way back to the boat, the adrenaline finally leaves him, and when the pain hits, it hits _hard_. 

His lip is bleeding and swollen, so is his eye. He’s having a hard time seeing out of it, and he’s also pretty sure his forehead is bleeding. He really, _really_ hopes he doesn’t need stitches. His family can’t afford a hospital bill like that, especially now that Pope lost those groceries. 

Shit, the groceries. 

Pope stumbles into the cabin and catches himself on the wall, suddenly dizzy. His eye might be swollen shut, but when he blinks everything feels too bright and harsh and _awful_. 

He tries to take a breath, but his lungs won’t cooperate. The world suddenly feels too fast and too slow and fine but _not fine_ all at once. 

That grocery money was supposed to pay the electric bill this month, and Pope fucked it all up. It’s all his fault. 

He scrambles to find a place to sit before he falls. He lands heavily on the cabin bench, and he puts his head down between his knees, covers his ears with his hands, and tries to breathe right. He watches blood from the gash on his forehead that’s going to need stitches drip onto the deck. 

His dad’s gonna be so pissed about the groceries. And the money for the electric that’s now gonna have to be used to pay his hospital bill. Pope messed up, he messed up _so bad_ , and his dad’s gonna be so disappointed in him, and he’s so _screwed and--_

“Dude!” JJ calls out as he leaps his way onto the deck of the boat off the docks. His voice is light with laughter, and he’s holding up a small wad of cash as he comes running into the cabin, “You’re not gonna believe how much Miss Amy gave me for--,” 

JJ’s voice dies out the minute he’s through the door, looking down at Pope curled in on himself having a panic attack instead of driving the boat like he should be.

“Are you okay?” JJ asks, and Pope sees JJ’s old sneakers from where his head is in between his knees. He can’t answer, his breathing is too fast, lungs tripping over themselves to catch up with his thoughts. 

He can’t think about anything except how his mom’s gonna have to pick up extra shifts at work to make up for the money, and his dad’s gonna have to apologize to the people who are gonna go without groceries for a week, and _it’s all Pope’s fault and--_

“Pope?” JJ cuts through the noise, and Pope realizes a split second later that JJ’s moving to kneel down in front of him, “Hey, talk to me, man.” 

But he can’t talk, because he can’t _breathe_ , and all he can see is the money JJ dropped on the floor by the little growing pool of blood splatter. He should tell JJ to move it, before the money gets bloody and _ruined_ , just like everything else Pope touches. 

“Pope, _look_ at me,” and suddenly there’s fingers pulling his hands away from his ears and lifting his face up. 

Pope winces at the ache of movement, but doesn’t fight him. JJ’s fingers are cool and feel nice on his swollen, bruising skin. 

Pope hears JJ suck in a sharp breath, and when the world stops being too terrible enough for him to open his eyes for a moment, Pope sees an entire myriad of emotions in the wide blue eyes staring back at him. 

He watches as JJ goes from shock to fear and worry to panic and rage. There’s something else there too that Pope notices, even mid-panic attack. Something in the way JJ’s chin quivers for a moment before his mouth presses into a furious scowl. Something past the worry-- akin to fear, but _stronger_. More protective. 

But it’s gone before Pope can really look, replaced and buried under the thousands of emotions pulling JJ in a thousand directions at once. 

“Who did this?” JJ asks-- _demands_ , voice too loud and growled for Pope to deal with right now. When Pope doesn’t answer right away, JJ shakes him a little, a mounting fury in his eyes that Pope doesn’t know how to handle, “Pope, look at me. Who fucking _did this_?” 

And Pope-- Pope can’t do this. He can’t. Not when his eye is swollen shut, not when his blood is on the deck of his father’s boat. Not with JJ’s eyes on him. 

Pope thinks JJ’s eyes are his favorite thing in the world. They’re stupidly _pretty_ \-- always have been, even when they’re red from seawater or purple from bruises. No matter what their condition, they’ve always been Pope’s little glimpse into burning, white hot fire inside of JJ’s soul. It’s what made Pope fall in love with JJ, he thinks. 

Because he is. He’s in love. It’s not some passing crush to moan and groan about to his friends, it was never going to be, because nothing in Pope’s life can ever be _simple_. 

He’s so, _so_ fucking in love with JJ, and he can’t do this. 

Pope doesn’t register the sob he’s letting out until it’s already in the open air between them. He pulls away from JJ’s hands as he lets out another, squeezes his eyes shut as they keep coming and curls back into himself because it’s _so much_ , it’s _too_ _much_. 

“Hey, no no no,” JJ’s fury is gone as quickly as it came. He plasters on a comforting smile, even if his eyes are full of concern and a little bit of panic. He attempts to sound reassuring when he says, “It’s okay! Hey, it’s okay, Pope. Shit, uhm. Wait-- wait a minute. It’s _okay_. Just-- here, let me.” 

And then JJ is ducking low under Pope’s arms and worming his way into a loose, awkward hug. After a couple of seconds of fumbling and repositioning and “ _c’mon, dude, work with me here,_ ” Pope’s head is resting on JJ’s shoulder with JJ’s arms snug around his middle. 

“It’s okay,” JJ says, and Pope squeezes his eyes shut and holds on tightly to the back of JJ’s tank top, “You’re okay, you’re fine now. I promise. You’re okay.” 

After another few seconds of Pope’s ragged breathing, JJ pipes up again, voice light and casual, like it is when he’s trying to make someone feel better, “Miss Amy gave me twenty bucks for proposing to her with the bananas.” 

Pope would have laughed if he hadn’t been crying. Despite his rapid heartbeats, Pope still lets out an involuntary huff, because _of course_ JJ proposed with bananas to Miss Amy. 

JJ notices it, because he then launches into a whole story about how after Miss Amy gave him so much money, he started proposing groceries to every woman he was making runs to, and he got, like, a _shit_ _ton_ of tips for it. 

Pope listens, lulled more by the sound of JJ’s voice than the actual story he’s telling. At one point while he’s talking, JJ leans his head to rest against Pope’s. It’s easier to focus on slowing his breathing, and find steady ground again. 

Pope feels more stable by the time JJ’s talking about how he got tipped at basically every house, “Except for this one house where the lady’s husband answered the door. And I swear dude, it was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen in my _life_.”

“Please tell me you had your shirt on,” Pope says, and when he pulls back JJ’s smile is brighter than the goddamn sun. 

“No, dude! How do you think I was making so much bank?” 

“That’s so stupid,” Pope says, and JJ shrugs. 

“Hey, man. If you got it, you flaunt it. I don’t make the rules.” 

Pope smiles and shakes his head. There’s a lull between them for a moment, and Pope knows what JJ’s next question is before it’s even on his tongue. 

“So,” JJ starts, and then he’s gesturing to Pope’s bruised and beat up face, “You gonna tell me what--,” 

“I broke Rafe’s nose,” Pope blurts out before JJ can finish. JJ’s eyes go _wide_ , and the words just start tumbling out of him, “He started talking shit about _us_ and the whole _kooks versus pogues_ thing and _you_ and-- and I just got so pissed off I broke his nose.” 

When he looks, JJ is staring at him slack jawed in wide eyed awe. 

“Don’t just stare at me,” Pope says, feeling just a little bit hysterical, “Say something!” 

JJ blinks, like he has to take a minute to compose himself. 

“Pope,” he says, completely serious, “That was the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

And Pope laughs. He can’t help it. All the adrenaline and anxiety and everything leaving him in one rush of air. 

“I’m serious!” JJ says, almost indignantly, even as he’s fighting a smile of his own, “It was hot!” 

Pope throws his head back and laughs hard, even if it hurts his ribs. He misses the look of pure relief and maybe something more on JJ’s face as he does. But when JJ laughs too, Pope feels something heavy finally slide off his shoulders. 

Later, when they’re back at the chateau and John B and JJ were running to the store to get medical supplies -- the cut on his forehead doesn’t need stitches ( _thank god_ ) but it definitely needs more than just a flimsy bandaid -- Pope decides to say something. 

Both he and Kiara are sitting on the couch next to the coffee table in the chateau, and Kie had just handed him a ziplock bag full of ice and wrapped up in a dish towel for his eye when he says, “Can I tell you something?” 

“Of course,” Kiara says as she sits down next to him, one leg folded under the other. She cocks her head to the side at his tone, “Is everything okay?” 

“Everything’s fine,” Pope says quickly, and when Kie’s suspicious look only deepens, Pope sighs, then takes a breath. 

“I like JJ.” he says, and Kie laughs.

“Of course you do,” she says, “Everybody likes JJ.” 

“No, Kie,” Pope shakes his head, then gives her a look, hoping she gets it, “I _like_ JJ.” 

A confused sort of smile starts to grow on her face, “What do you mean?” 

“I mean--,” he starts, then stops. He takes a minute to gather his thoughts, and starts again in earnest, “I like it when he wears my sweatshirt. It makes me feel-- it makes me feel warm. Do you know what I mean? Like he’s carrying a piece of me wherever he goes. Like if I know he’s wearing something of mine, it’ll keep him safe. And I know that’s stupid but it’s true.” 

“I want him to be happy,” and Pope smiles now, “I like it when he smiles, especially when it’s with his eyes. Have noticed that? When he’s really happy about something, like when we’re surfing or just hanging out by the campfire or something, he smiles with his eyes. And I like his freckles. And his hair. And his eyes. I just--,” 

“Holy shit,” Kiara cuts him off, and when Pope looks, her smile is something genuine and a little disbelieving, but kind, too, “You like JJ. You _like_ _like_ JJ." 

“Yeah, Kie,” Pope breathes out, a smile of his own finding a home on his face, “I _like_ _like_ JJ.”

Kiara’s smile turns giddy, and then she’s springing up and running to the kitchen. 

“What are you--,” Pope starts to ask, but she’s already gone with a quick “ _hang on one second!_ ” 

Pope watches with a bewildered smile as Kie gathers up a few -- and by a _few_ Pope means a _lot_ \-- bags of snacks and two beers into her arms before she comes running back and dumps it all on the table and sits back down with a huff. 

“Okay,” she says, and as she hands Pope one of the beers, her smile is encouraging and kind and everything that makes her Kie, “Tell me _everything_.” 


	4. Thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is soft as hell because I've missed my boys lmao

Pope has never been afraid of thunder. 

Growing up in the outer banks meant growing up with tropical storms. Didn’t matter if you were on the cut or the figure eight, a pogue or a kook. Everyone had to deal with the weather. It was just a part of the life. 

Sometimes the sun would shine, the birds would fly, and the ocean would sparkle like a true paradise on earth. Other times, the clouds were black as pitch, and the waves crashed on the shore like they were trying to grab the outer banks and swallow it whole.

Pope’s never been afraid of storms. Weather is explainable-- something he can see and research and understand. He always thought that storms were kinda _beautiful_. 

So it does make him sad, a little, when the low rumble of thunder, even from all the way across the ocean, is enough to make John B flinch. 

They’re all sitting outside the chateau, JJ and Kie in the hammock and Pope and John B in the lounge chairs beside them. It’s late into the evening, the barest slivers of the purple pink blue sunset just enough illuminate the sharp, thin black line of storm clouds along the horizon. 

The storm is miles off, but sound carries far across still waters, and the low rumble washes over their little group like a wave. 

Pope watches John B, who had been half asleep and fading fast, jump awake in his chair-- eyes flying open as he looks around wildly for a moment, sucking in a sharp, panicked breath. 

JJ and Kie -- who had been in some kind of ridiculous debate about the idea of a biodegradable beercan -- both turn towards the sudden movement, expressions turning to ones of concern. 

When he realizes there’s no danger, John B lets out a stunted breath before settling back down, and Pope’s heart twinges in sympathy. 

“You okay?” He asks, quiet enough not to startle, and in the low light Pope sees John B’s shoulders slump as he sighs. 

“Yeah,” John B clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah I’m good.” 

“You sure?” Kiara asks gently, and John B gives her a halfhearted smile. 

“More or less,” he admits, and Pope and Kie exchange a look.

“I brought my uke,” she offers, “we can go inside and mess with the guitar, if you want.” 

She uses that voice that’s hard to say no to. John B contemplates it for a moment, biting his cheek as another low rumble sounds in the distance, before nodding and rising to his feet. “Sure.” 

“Have fun,” Pope smiles as Kie climbs out of the hammock, and John B gives him a small smile when Pope waves goodbye. 

“Remember to be safe kids,” JJ chimes in and Pope and John B snicker at the “ _ow, hey!_ ” he lets out when Kie pinches his arm. 

“Don’t fall asleep out here. That storm will be here in the morning,” Kie calls over her shoulder as she follows after John B into the chateau. “And don’t leave the beer outside all night!” 

Both JJ and Pope give her a salute and a “ _yes ma’am,_ ” that she rolls her eyes at, but her smile is fond. 

Soon enough the screen door of the chateau is clacking shut, and then it’s just Pope and JJ in the fading colors of the sunset with the silver lining of a storm. 

“I don’t know about _you_ ,” Pope says, and pushes to his feet and moves to pop open the cooler, “But I could use another beer.” 

“Hell yeah, dude,” JJ grins, shuffling to one side of the hammock to make room, “Grab me one too.” 

Pope obliges, snatching up two beers and closing the cooler with his foot hopping onto the hammock. It rocks perilously for a moment -- JJ laughs while Pope tries to balance with the beers, muttering “ _shit, sorry,_ ” -- before coming to rest at an even equilibrium once more. 

Pope tries not to let his gaze linger on the bruises littering JJ’s face. When he’d shown up that morning, they had been fresh, the blood still drying on his lip. 

His mom had always taught him that hate only breeds hate, and that you should never hate anyone that didn’t _truly_ deserve it, but-- _well_. 

Pope really, _really_ fucking hates JJ’s dad. 

In the sunset, the bruises across JJ’s face turn a deep, dark purple. Not his eyes, though. 

In the sunset, his eyes are as blue as paradise. 

“You ever been scared of thunder, Pope?” JJ asks as Pope passes him one of the beers. 

He’s got Pope’s sweatshirt on today. He has to roll the sleeves up a little, usually, and when they slide down to pool around his wrists when he reaches for the beer, something _warm_ spreads through Pope’s chest at the sight.

“Not really,” he says, leaning back on the hammock while JJ pops the cap off his beer, shifting to get comfortable. Their legs end up a little tangled together, but JJ doesn’t seem to mind, so neither does Pope. “What about you?” 

“Nah,” JJ says, and takes a heavy swig. It must hurt to drink from the bottle with that split lip of his, but he doesn’t complain. 

“When I was little,” Pope says, idly watching the condensate form on his beer bottle, “my mom would always take me outside to dance whenever it rained.” 

“Really?” JJ asks, looking up at him, and Pope nods. 

He thinks about those cloudy, windy days, when the sky would let its fury fly and fall. 

His mother would lead Pope outside, her hand gentle and warm in his own. The concrete of the sidewalk was still warm from under their bare feet, and they’d spin and clap and dance to the melody of wind and thunder and rain. 

“It was a long time ago, but I always remember the rain was never cold,” he says, and smiles while he thinks about it. “We’d have competitions to see who had the best dance moves. I was terrible, but it would make mom laugh, so I did it anyway.” 

“Dad would always watch from the kitchen window,” he tells JJ, smiling fondly at the memory, “And when we were done, he’d come out with two towels that he put in the dryer for us. And we’d eat dinner out on the porch and watch the rest of the storm.” 

Pope remembers being settled snugly between his parents, his head on his mother’s shoulder and his father’s arm around them both. He doesn’t think he’d feel safer, than right there, in his parents’ arms. 

It was so much easier back then-- when the only thing Pope ever looked forward to was dancing in the rain. Back when school and scholarships didn’t matter so much. So much simpler, too.

So, no-- Pope had never been afraid of thunder. In a way, it always reminded him of safety. Of _home_. Of love. 

Maybe that’s why Pope’s always been drawn to the storm in JJ’s eyes. 

When he looks, JJ’s smiling as he looks at the sunset, like maybe he got lost in Pope’s memories right along with him. 

They fall into a comfortable silence as they watch the sunset fade while the storm inches closer, and it’s so simple, so _easy_ , and everything about it just feels _right_.

And Pope realizes, right then and there, that it’s not just this moment. Every moment with JJ feels this way. 

And that’s just how love is, Pope supposes. 

Sometimes love is like fireworks, erupting fast and beautiful and over so quick you’ll miss it if you blink, but the smoke still lingers-- distant but bright and loud and _wonderful_ in memory. Other times love is slow and sinking, and one day you wake up and suddenly you’re submerged in it’s warmth and beauty and you never want to let go.

And sometimes -- Pope realizes, with a startling amount of clarity and peace -- sometimes love is none of that. Sometimes there are no fireworks, no sinking feeling of content oblivion. 

It’s just there, and it’s simple, and it’s easy, and it just feels right. 

Loving JJ just feels right. And it always will. 

And, _yeah._ Pope thinks he’s pretty okay with that. 

The sunset does fade, eventually. The hour finally catching up with the two of them. Every time Pope blinks, he feels his eyes get heavier and heavier, and the idea of sleep becomes more and more appealing. 

The sky becomes dull and dark, the approaching thunderstorm slowly inching closer and closer. And with those clouds comes a fresh, cool wind that sends slight shivers across Pope’s skin. 

“You cold?” JJ asks, warm hand coming to rest on Pope’s shin, and Pope feels himself wake up a bit. When he looks, JJ is watching him with tired, content eyes. 

“A little,” he admits, shifting to seek the heat JJ’s radiating like a goddamn _furnace_ , or something.

“You want your sweatshirt back?” JJ asks, and that feeling of _simple_ , _easy_ , _right_ inside of Pope gives a little tug.

“Nah,” he says, and bumps their knees together, “I told you you could keep it. I don’t mind.” 

JJ opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something to that, but Pope gives him a _look_ before he gets the chance. JJ's ears go red, but he smiles, fingers curling into the navy blue sleeves a little. 

“We should head in anyways,” Pope says, “Don’t want Kie putting our heads on spears for leaving the beer out all night.” 

JJ hums, then lets out a big yawn, and Pope smiles. 

“You’re tired,” he says, and JJ lets out another sleepy hum. Pope jostles him gently as he starts to get out of the hammock, “C’mon.”

“Mmkay,” JJ mumbles, and follows after him. 

That’s how Pope ends up putting the rest of the beer away while JJ flops onto the pullout couch without actually helping, but Pope doesn’t mind so much. 

By the time he’s done putting away the beer, JJ has already managed to kick off his shoes, worm under the thin blankets and basically take up half of the pullout. His hair is already a mess, blond locks flopping this way and that, but his face is peaceful -- despite the bruises and cuts and everything -- and Pope finds himself melting at the sight, a little.

 _God_ , he smiles to himself. He really is screwed. 

Pope finds that he doesn’t mind that so much, either. 

Pope makes his way over to JJ’s side. The pullout creaks as he sits down, and he looks over at JJ’s form as he takes off his shoes. 

“JJ.” Pope whispers, reaching out and gently nudging his friend’s shoulder. 

“Hm?” 

“You awake?” 

“No,” JJ answers, and Pope huffs out a quiet laugh.

“You gonna move over?” 

“Don’t wanna.” 

“C’mon, dude. I’m tired too. Scooch.” 

“ _Nooo_.”

“You want me to sleep somewhere else?” 

There’s a pause, and then, “No.” 

JJ starts shuffling over to make room under the blankets, and Pope feels a familiar warmth bloom inside his chest. 

“C’mere,” JJ says, and Pope goes. 

It takes a bit of shuffling and repositioning, but eventually the two of them are laying side by side facing each other under the covers. And here, lying beside JJ with a breadth between them, that warm, welcome feeling of _simple_ , _easy_ , _right_ gives another tug in his chest, and Pope decides, then and there, that he wants to hold onto this feeling and never let go. 

“Hey,” Pope whispers. Gently, he reaches out and intertwines his fingers with JJ’s, gives them a squeeze. When JJ opens his eyes to look at him, Pope asks, “Next time it rains, you wanna go dancing with me?” 

JJ looks between their hands and Pope’s face, blinking, like maybe he’s not sure if he heard Pope correctly. His smile comes slow. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah dude,” Pope smiles, too, “I wanna see all those great dance moves of yours.” 

Even in the low light, Pope can see the way JJ’s ears turn pink. 

“Hate to break it to you, but,” JJ all but whispers, “I’m not the best dancer out there, Pope.” 

“That’s okay,” Pope whispers back. “I can teach you.” 

JJ stares at him, and it’s a look that Pope is starting to recognize. 

“Really?” 

“Really,” Pope assures him, giving the fingers laced with his a gentle squeeze. 

“Okay,” JJ says, then huffs quietly, like he can’t believe what he’s saying, “Yeah. I’ll take you up on that.” 

“Good,” Pope says, and when JJ smiles, it’s warm and content and looks a whole awful lot like hope. Hope, and _maybe_ \-- just maybe -- a little bit of love, too. 

When the two of them finally drift off, their hands stay laced together all through the night and into the beginnings of morning.


	5. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, we’ve reached the end. Thanks so much for coming on the ride. It’s been real <3

When Pope wakes that morning, it’s to the feeling of JJ up against his side. 

He blinks awake, staring up at the ceiling, and realizes quickly that his head is resting on top of JJ’s. They’d curled into each other in the night, and Pope’s fingers are tingling a bit from where their hands are still laced together, lax and warm. It’s kind of the best thing in the world to wake up to. 

JJ’s face is calm and peaceful while he sleeps. His head is resting against Pope’s shoulder, face almost tucked into the crook of Pope’s neck. His blond locks are an absolute mess, and Pope smiles fondly down at the sight. 

Then he hears a soft camera _click_. 

His looks towards the noise, and standing in the tiny kitchen of the chateau are Kie and John B watching them with mischievous grins. Kie’s got her phone up as she takes a picture of the two of them on the pullout couch, and John B is peering at the screen over her shoulder. 

“I think the lovebirds are waking up,” John B says when he realizes Pope is staring at the two of them through half shut eyes. 

“Just gimme a sec, okay--,” Kie snaps one more photo before she quickly hides her phone behind her back, biting back a grin as she says brightly, “Morning, sleepyheads.” 

“Morning,” Pope mumbles around a yawn. He sits up, carefully not to jostle JJ’s still sleeping form by his side as he stretches. He blinks blearily at the two of them, “Did you just take a picture?” 

“Nope!” Kiara says breezily, popping the _p_ in emphasis. John B snickers, fighting off a grin as he nods in agreement, and Pope’s finally awake enough to realize that that’s definitely bullshit. 

“Mhm,” he says, “I wanna see that later.” 

“See what?” She asks innocently, like she’s never done anything wrong in her life, ever. 

Pope squints suspiciously at her, and Kie’s smile turns cheeky as she tucks her phone away into her back pocket with a wink. 

“Who wants coffee?” John B asks, quickly changing the subject as he darts over to the sink to start filling the coffee pot. Pope lets it go-- for now. It’s too early for insisting, anyway. 

He does really, _really_ wanna see that picture though. 

“Me!” Kiara pipes up just as quick, bounding over to John B’s side to help grab some mugs out of the cupboard, and Pope hears JJ groan from beside him. 

“Hey, sunshine,” Pope says softly as JJ sits up with a huff, “You sleep okay?” 

“Yeah, I slept good,” JJ says as before he stretches with a yawn, and Pope goes warm all over when JJ leans into his side with a content sigh, “Thanks for being my pillow.” 

“It’s what I’m here for,” Pope muses with a smile, and he can feel the gentle shake of JJ’s answering soft laughter against his side. 

“Would you look at that? He lives!” John B says as JJ yawns once more, and Pope feels something inexplicably fond swell inside of him at the sleepy pout that appears on JJ's face. 

“You guys are so fuckin’ _loud_ ,” JJ complains. They all laugh out loud at that, and Pope can’t help but think that JJ is the happiest he’s ever been, right here surrounded by the people who love him most-- even if he’s rolling his eyes at them all. 

“That’s hysterical, coming from you,” Kie teases, and JJ huffs at her while he scrubs the sleep out of his eyes. She grins, “Besides, you’ll wanna be awake for this. We’re having waffles for breakfast.” 

JJ perks up at the same time Pope raises his brows, “We are?” 

“We are,” Kiara declares confidently. 

“Do we even have all the ingredients?” Pope asks skeptically. John B tugs open the fridge to take a cursory look. 

“We’ve got eggs and-- well, we’ve got eggs.” He says, shutting the door at the same time Kie snaps her fingers and mumbles “ _damn it._ ” 

“I mean,” JJ starts, “We could just put the eggs in the--,” 

“We are not putting eggs in the waffle maker,” Pope cuts in, and adds before JJ can finish opening his mouth to ask. “No, it would not make waffle shaped eggs. It would just make a mess.” 

“You don’t know that,” JJ mumbles, and when Pope rolls his eyes he doesn’t see the borderline adoring look that passes over JJ’s face at the sight of it. 

Kiara and John B, however. 

“Well, _I_ still want waffles,” Kiara says. Then, swift as anything, she turns to John B, “Come to the store with me?” 

The two of them exchange a look that Pope can’t see Kie’s face, but he watches the smile on John B’s face grow slowly, “Yeah, sure.” 

John B’s tone is enough that Pope and JJ share a confused look, and when Pope looks back John B’s smile only grows bigger. 

“Uh,” is the only thing JJ can get out before Kie is spinning on her heel to look at JJ and Pope. 

“You guys will be okay without us, right?” She asks, and something inside Pope’s brain slowly starts to shift suspiciously at her tone. 

“Yeah?” Pope doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but it’s out before he can really think about it. 

“Great!” Kie beams before he gets the chance to ask, clapping her hands together, “John B and I will go to the store, and maybe you two can clean up a bit while we’re gone? So we can have like, an actual place to sit and eat. Make it nice, y’know?” 

“Sure,” Pope says, unsure what the odd glint in her eyes is exactly supposed to mean. 

“Maybe put on some music too,” John B adds, and that suspicious feeling doubles, “Get a good vibe going. Gotta set the mood.” 

“Makes sense,” JJ says, shooting Pope a weird look, because even he can pick up on the utter strangeness that is taking place around them right now. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?” Pope asks, watching their reactions carefully. 

“Nope!” Kie says at the same time John B says, “We’re good!” 

Glancing between Kie and John B’s smiles, Pope just can’t seem to figure out what the issue is. Why don’t they all just go to the store? Wouldn’t that just be easier? It definitely makes more sense than just two of them going. 

It’s like, _well_ \-- it’s like they’re trying to get Pope and JJ to be alone together. 

It clicks in Pope’s head maybe just a little too late. 

“ _Wait_ \--,” Pope starts. 

“Well we’ll see you guys later!” Kie interrupts, and then she and John B are hustling to put on their shoes and get the hell out of dodge, “Shouldn’t take us too long.” 

“You think you guys will make it back before the storm?” JJ asks, nose scrunching up at the sight of the dark grey clouds swirling outside the windows. 

“I guess we’ll find out,” Kiara says, and now Pope swears there’s something knowing and _devious_ hiding behind her casual tone, because there _is_. 

“What about the-- okay.” JJ starts as Kie swiftly grabs ahold of John B’s wrist and starts pulling him towards the screen door. 

“We’ll be back soon!” Kie’s all smiles as she and John B make their escape, and when Pope gives her the most _don’t you dare_ look he can over JJ’s head, all Kie does is smile wider. 

“Have fun!” John B hollers over his shoulder with a grin before he follows after her, and then the screen door is clacking shut and it’s just JJ and Pope alone together in the chateau. 

The minute they’re gone JJ is turning to look at him and Pope has to try his best to school his expression from murderously panicked to something more neutral. 

It must sort of work, because all JJ says is, “Well they left in a hurry.” 

“Yeah.” Is the only thing Pope can manage. 

“I guess it’s just us, then.” 

“Yep.” 

They sit in an awkward silence for a moment before they turn to look at each other at the same time and JJ says “ _that was weird, right?_ ” and Pope answers immediately “ _that was so weird._ ” 

And then the two of them are laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, and the sound of their laughter twisting together in the air makes Pope feel whole. 

After that they begin the long, tenuous process of cleaning up the chateau. The silence between them is comfortable, like a soft blanket has settled around the two of them, blocking out the steadily growing sound of the wind of a tropical storm. 

“This is _boring_ ,” JJ says literally not ten minutes later, “I’m bored.” 

“Dude, we’ve barely even started.” Pope laughs as bundles up the sheets of the pullout and vaguely throws them in the direction of the washer and dryer closet for later. “C’mon, help me with the couch.” 

“ _Lame_ ,” JJ huffs, kicking at the sheets on the floor with his hands stuffed into his pockets before moving to help Pope fold the pullout back up into a couch. “You’re supposed to agree with me so we can stop cleaning and do something _fun_. You’re being lame, Pope.” 

“You go ahead and have fun,” Pope muses as the pullout finally starts to take the form of an actual couch once more, “I’m gonna keep cleaning up and being lame.” 

“You’re the _worst_ ,” JJ whines as he flops dramatically down onto the newly made up couch, and Pope smiles quietly to himself while he folds up their blankets. 

“What am I even supposed to do? Entertain myself?” 

“You’re pretty good at that, yeah.” 

“But you’re here too. You’re supposed to help me with the coming up with the entertainment.” 

“I think you can do a good job by yourself.” 

“How am I supposed to do that?” 

“Any way you want to, I guess.” 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then, “I spy with my little eye--,” 

“Oh my fucking god, JJ--,” 

“Shut up, we’re doing this,” JJ cuts him off. “I spy with my little eye,” he says, before pointedly dragging his gaze all around the room before he lands on Pope with a grin, “something lame.” 

“Ha ha,” Pope says dryly, and places the folded blankets in their proper place. He starts to rid the coffee table of trash as he says, “I spy with my little eye something _annoying_.” 

JJ’s grin turns cheeky, which Pope mocks back at him before JJ’s gaze goes back to wandering, and Pope continues to clean up the rest of the chateau. 

“I spy with my little eye,” JJ muses, before his gaze catches and holds on something behind Pope’s shoulder, “John B’s CD collection.” 

And with that, JJ hops off the couch and sprints over to the shelves upon shelves of CDs tucked against the wall by the stereo. 

“Your attention span is abysmal,” Pope laughs as he takes the last bits of stray trash off the table and shoves them into the trash can, and JJ lets out a fond sounding “ _shut it,_ ” while he chooses a CD. 

Soon enough, the sound of a low piano fills the room. Pope watches JJ spin on his heel as the piano riffs for a moment, then starts to dance across the room as the guitar and beat kicks in. 

Pope watches him go, leaning against the counter as JJ dances closer and closer to him. He’s clumsy in his movements-- more just goofing off than actually trying to find any beat or movement. Pope kinda thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world. 

“Hey,” JJ says as he sidles up close to Pope’s side. Biting his lip a little as he slips his hand into Pope’s and gives it a tug, “How about some dancing lessons?” 

JJ’s hand is warm and rough in his own, and Pope doesn’t think he ever wants to let go. 

“We’ve still gotta clean up,” he says, even as he lets JJ pull him into the open space of the kitchen tile, “And I thought we were saving it for the rain.” 

“Humor me,” JJ grins, and Pope lets himself be tugged into motion gladly. 

Here’s the thing about dancing. It’s not something you can exactly read about and learn. It takes practice to be good at dancing-- hours upon hours of perfecting the right way to move your body to the beat, how to express such high emotions without using your words. You can practice for years and never really know when you’ve reached perfection. 

And for a long, long time, that idea _terrified_ Pope to no end. How can you practice and train for something for so long and never be good enough? How can you learn without having a goal in mind? How do you continue to push for that goal of perfection when you know perfection is unreachable? 

But that’s the thing about dancing. It's not about the training. It’s not about the goal. It’s not about _perfect_. 

It’s about every little imperfect moment in between. That’s what makes it beautiful. 

And maybe that’s why Pope notices that JJ’s smile is a little crooked while they dance. Sure, his feet stumble a bit while he tries to copy the way Pope moves. And whenever he’s too occupied watching the way Pope’s feet slide on the kitchen tile, he doesn’t look like he quite knows what to do with his arms-- but never once does that smile falter. 

And maybe that’s why Pope always notices the little imperfections. Like how JJ’s freckles only show during hot summer days or when he’s a little sunburnt or blushing. Or the tiny, white scars on his chin and cheek, barely visible residue from scrapes and bruises and a home life that worked so hard to twist and break him but could never even touch his spirit. 

And maybe that’s why Pope fell in love with him. 

And see, Pope knows lots of things. He’s learned lots of things. He can tell you all about physics and the science of how a dead body decomposes and what even the hell a _toxicology_ _report_ is. 

But no school lesson could ever, _ever_ teach him how to love like this. 

No, this was something he had to learn on his own. 

The song comes to an end with the two of them breathless and laughing, faces flush and happy and Pope never wants this feeling to end.

Then Pope hears the steady rush of rain on the roof, and the two of them look at each other with breathless smiles. 

Pope offers JJ his hand. “Ready for the real thing?” 

JJ looks at his hand for a moment, then takes it with a grin that’s brighter than the sun in the sky, “Always.” 

Hand in hand, they rush out of the chateau and are greeted by the embrace of warm summer wind and rain. 

They spin and dance and laugh as the storm rages around them like they’re off on their own world. And Pope thinks-- this is it. This is everything he’s ever wanted. He is dancing in the rain with the boy he loves, and it’s the best thing in the world. 

As the storm crescendos into a brilliant song, Pope wraps his arms around JJ’s middle and spins him in around. JJ let’s out a yelped “ _hey!_ ” but he’s laughing still.

“What was that for?” JJ laughs as Pope sets him down, arms still wound around his waist. He can feel the warmth of JJ’s hands through his shirt where they found his shoulders to hold onto. 

They’re both soaked at this point, clothes drenched and sticking to their bodies maybe a little uncomfortably. Their shoes soak through as the puddles in the grass grow wider and deeper, but Pope can’t even bring himself to care. 

It’s imperfect, but Pope loves it nonetheless. 

And that’s why Pope decides -- right here, right now, while the two of them are surrounded by the wind and rain and everything Pope has ever wanted -- he wants to tell JJ every single thing about this love he’s learned.

“You know I love you, right?” He asks over the sound of the rain, and watches JJ’s eyes go wide, wide, _wide_. 

There’s a quick moment, barely even a split second, when Pope feels that familiar sudden rush of anxiety, that sudden heavy, dead weight of _fear_. But before the thought can even begin to take hold-- JJ is kissing him. 

It’s a messy, desperate clash of their lips, like JJ is afraid he'll never get the chance to do it again. Pope kisses back just as hard, adrenaline and _relief_ pumping through his veins so fast he goes a little dizzy. 

“I love you, too.” JJ gasps when they break for air. He laughs against Pope’s lips, and it’s a wet, small little thing, “Fuck, I _love_ you.” 

JJ’s grip is tight on his shoulders, like maybe he’s afraid Pope will shove him away the first chance he gets. So Pope holds JJ close, and kisses him again, this time sweet and slow, to reassure JJ that he’s not going anywhere. 

Later, when all of the pogues are gathered back in the kitchen and eating freshly made waffles, Pope feels his phone buzz in his pocket. 

When he looks, Kiara had sent him the picture of the two of them asleep on the couch. He tucks his phone back into his pocket, biting back a grin as he tries to pay attention to the conversation being had. 

Across the table, Kie takes a sip from her coffee mug with a knowing smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to screech at me on [tumblr](https://johnbbutmakeitace.tumblr.com/)


End file.
